Category Archives: Books

Hedonism’s Slave


Whatever expectations Isari had had of this day were obliterated by the clouds of dust that swirled around her and assaulted her senses. She scrunched up her face, mindful of the cosmetics that heavily layered her skin. She blinked, the grit of the sandstorm causing her eyes to water, and she quickly lifted a perfectly- manicured hand to her face, attempting to catch the bothersome tears that threatened to destroy all her mother’s hard work. She breathed in through her mouth and immediately regretted it when dirt found it’s way down her throat and she began coughing grotesquely. She bent over, aware of the fact that her bountiful cleavage was nearly falling out of  her ridiculous costume. She looked on either side of her, trying to see if anyone else was having the same issues as she, and she made eye contact with a pretty boy that looked close to her own age. He grinned broadly as he shrugged and shielded his eyes from the airbourne grime.

“If they fall out, you might catch a higher price!” His eyes sparkled a brilliant green color, and Isari laughed, which only made her choke harder. She continued to hack until one of the handlers approached, looking anxious.

“The buyers will be here soon!  You must maintain your disposition!” The handler laid an un-calloused hand on Isari’s back and began thumping her lightly. Her coughing fit ended quickly enough, and she stood up, let out a deep breath. The handler adjusted her crooked dress, and slid his hands on either side of her breasts, thrusting them upward before stepping back and nodding approvingly. He then moved away, continuing to fuss over the other human commodities. Isari glanced over at the green-eyed boy and rolled her eyes. He shook his head, a little bit sadly.

“We’re not people anymore, you know. Only bondservants for the next seven years.” He seemed distracted by his own thought momentarily, then brought his attention back to Isari. “I’m Nickoli.” He held out a pale, freckled hand, and Isari grasped it firmly.

“Isari. I’ve been trying to forget that fact for the last three years, thanks.” She smiled kindly at Nickoli, and realized by his handshake he would most likely be purchased by a man. She immediately liked this charming boy, and hoped that maybe their buyers would live near each other. She’d been feeling melancholy of late, thinking of her family, and her friends Rona and Mighera, and of the fact that she would never see them after this day. “A great opportunity” is what they all had said to her. Perhaps, she had replied, but at what price?

There was a loud, ear-piercing whistle then, and Isari shivered involuntarily.

And so it begins, she thought bitterly.

After the government had fallen to anarchy, a new way of life had taken over. The people who had once been celebrities in the old government became the highest class in a new caste system where self- indulgence and carnality reigned supreme. Those individuals gifted with such talents that stimulated the mind and body- actors, writers, artists, musicians, prostitutes- these were elevated above all others, as were  those children born to such. These were called the  Schon. The working class, those who were responsible solely for pleasuring the Schon were known as the Haaldus. The Haaldus consisted of beautiful people alone. Any child born to a member of the Haaldus who bore any imperfection were sent away to a lower caste- the Enw. The Enw were those who served the Schon, keeping them in their extravagance, and children deemed acceptably alluring were sold off at the age of seventeen to the Schon, where they remained for seven years, until they had earned the title of Haaldus. There existed another caste, though it was not acknowledged, one consisting of those who were disabled, or unseemly, or those considered devoid of any pleasure-imparting talent. The Forsaken, as these unfortunates were called, were displaced souls, forbidden to build homes, and so wandered the streets and roads, most of them meeting their deaths at the hands of the higher castes. Isari’s parents were Enw, and this was her Hocking Day.

She watched as gorgeous people decked out in shimmering fabrics entered the Emporium, intent on finding the most desirable of playthings. Several faces she recognized, an actor and actress couple who were known to purchase a considerable number of Enw every year, an artist who’s work had brought Isari to tears, and a well-known prostitute who owned a slew of pleasure houses across several provinces. The sea of beautiful faces in front of her began to blend together, and Isari realized her ridiculously-tight dress was making it hard for her to breathe. She felt a hand steady her, and gave Nickoli a grateful look. She closed her eyes and  took as deep a breath as her bindings would allow. When she opened her eyes, she found herself face to face with Shaandi Necorian, the owner of the pleasure houses.

Shaandi eyed Isari intimately, starting from her feet, which were encased in absurdly high heels, continuing achingly slow all the way up to her chest, where Isari heard her make a sound low in her throat. Isari stood there miserably, trying not to reach out and pummel the woman, until Shanndi’s eyes met her own. An almost imperceptible smirk appeared on the woman’s face, and the slightest raise of one perfectly-shaped eyebrow as she assessed the malice burning in Isari’s eyes.

“Don’t be so hostile, love. The clients won’t enjoy it.” Long fingers with lacquered nails were placed on Isari’s chin, lifting as Shaandi appraised her skin and jawline.

Isari remained mute, openly showing her contempt as Shaandi noticed Nickoli standing nearby.

“You, too, love. There’s too much sadness in your eyes. Buck up! You’re lucky to have made the cut.” Nickoli smiled, remaining his charming self despite the barbarity of his situation.

“Yes, ma’am.” Isari noticed a Southern lilt to his response that she hadn’t noticed before.

Shaandi laughed, a pleasant and alluring sound. “Ma’am? Oh, love, do I look as old as all that?” She flirted as she touched Nickoli’s hand. Isari didn’t fail to notice how every action and movement the woman made was licentious.

Nickoli’s porcelain skin flushed a bright red, and Isari realized the effect Shaandi was having on him. “No, ma’- er, miss. No, not at all.” Isari narrowed her eyes at him, feeling betrayed by his reaction to this member of the Schon.

Shaandi laughed her golden laugh again, and turned her attention once again to Isari. “You see? You’re little friend accepts his circumstances, pretty bird. Perhaps I can teach you to welcome them as well, hmm?” Shaandi placed her hand once again on Isari’s face, this time cupping her cheek in a surprisingly comforting way.

Isari felt her heart sink, despite the reassurance. It had been bad enough when she knew she was being sold to a complete stranger to be used as she would, but to be sold into servitude at a pleasure house was more than she thought she could bear.

 

 

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Insecure


I have realized why I haven’t finished writing a complete novel yet.

Because I suck balls.

Not in the good, tea-bagging kind of way, either. In the Taylor Swift, untalented, Twilight-esque kind of way.

OK, maybe not quite that badly. I’m pretty sure I could never write something as terrible as Twilight even if I tried. But I’m also pretty sure there’s some people out there who might think so.

I’ve been told by a few people that I possess a talent for writing, and if my blog is any indication, the fact that I have almost as many followers as I do posts seems like a good omen. However, I’ve just been working on chapter four, and every time I type something and then read it, I want to smash my computer screen and abolish any evidence that I would imagine such drivel.

Is this a writer’s dilemma? Do all writer’s sit in front of their work and berate themselves for writing swill? If so, did Stephanie Meyer type up her “masterpiece” and refrain from ever reading it afterwords? It would certainly seem so. ‘Tis true I would probably benefit from a few classes that teach a person how to focus and write and rewrite, but who has money for that kind of thing? I’ve always written by emulating other authors whose books I’ve read. Is that considered plagiarism? I wouldn’t think so, since I’m not actually stealing their ideas. As much as I adore a great many writers with many writing styles, I don’t really want a reader to finish my book and think to himself, “Well, so-and-so writes exactly like that.”

I’ve discovered as I write that the details, which are so extremely important, are the very things that keep me from getting my stories out of my head. I adore Thomas Hardy’s attention to detail, and his 14- page devotion to describing what an English moor looks like, but how did he do that while still keeping the reader interested at the story at hand? And unless you’re writing in first person narrative, how do you stick the “she said” s and “he replied”s in without sounding too cheesy?

I know I can write well, it’s just getting it out that’s the hard part. And as you all probably already know, the only thing I like hard is my Rockstar’s dick.

Thank you for listening to my rant. The end.

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NaNoWriMo: Chapter 1


Well, I didn’t finish my NaNoWriMo novel, but can’t let it go to waste, so here’s the first chapter…

I opened my eyes, threw back my head, and laughed in delight.

I’d waited my entire life to get to this place, and even though I had no conceivable idea how I’d gotten here, I was here, and that was good enough for me. I saw an unpretentious breeze, or rather, the effects of it, and a leaf from one of the massive sunflowers I was standing in the midst of brushed lightly against my cheek. I lifted my hand and pressed my fingers to the spot, imagining for a moment that being kissed by an angel  must feel very like having a feathery sunflower leaf caress your cheek. I raised my eyes upward, and through a canopy of honeyed sunflower petals, I beheld a flawless azure sky; I watched contentedly as whispy silver clouds meandered by. I’m convinced for a moment I saw the form of Alice’s white rabbit scramble past before it dissipated into the heavenly beyond.

Standing amid the towering plants, I had no idea how far the field stretched, only that I couldn’t see the end of it. I wanted to barrel through the tall stalks until there were no more to barrel through, so I did. As clumsy as I tend to be, it didn’t really seem to be a very good idea, but I felt weightless as I ran, and my feet refused to be obstructed by clods of dirt or wayward sunflower stems. I raced through the golden crop, until I realized that if it ended, I was nowhere near that end.

I slowed, just as I felt of burst of sunlight fall across my shoulders. I raised my arms and bounced gleefully, bellowing “HERE COMES THE SUN! DOOBIE DOOBIE!” and giggled, because I haven’t the faintest idea what the rest of the words are to that song. I didn’t even know it was a Beatle’s song until well into my 20’s. For shame.

I continued to dance foolishly through my sunflowers, giving no thought whatsoever that my dance moves have always rivaled those of a pious eighty-year-old nun. In the past, I would shudder at the thought of even dancing alone in my apartment, and sooner die than set foot on any designated dance floor, but here, among my blooming friends, I felt no such humiliation.

“Doobie doobie!” I sang again at the top of my lungs, celebrating the glorious Sun’s visitation upon me, my arms still aloft, inviting her to share her blessed vitamin D with me. She consented, and I smiled into her radiant heat with face lifted, swaying slightly with my fellow sunflowers. And like them, I didn’t sneeze as I normally did when faced with direct sunlight; instead, I drank in her rays like a parched traveler in the desert.

As I absorbed the shining nourishment with my eyes closed in prayer, I felt again an angel kiss upon my head. My eyes slid open and I embraced my sunflower lover, pulling his head down to better examine each petal, each seed, every floret. The intricacies of my lover’s face bewitched me, and I could not look away. Instead, I found myself adrift in his gaze, awed by the spectrum of colors. My sight was more keen than ever it had been, and no matter where I looked, I saw more than ever I had. I wondered if this was a gift from Mother Sun, and mentally thanked her.

Suddenly, I noticed a massive oak behind me, and I wondered how I had missed it during my absurd Sun Dance. I let go my sunflower’s head, and approached this majestic tree.

I racked my brain on any topiary trivia I might have picked up, but the only thing I could come up with was that this tree must be ancient to have grown to such huge proportions. I looked up at the gnarled branches, and was surprised to see an array of crimson and russet colored leaves; several of them floated lazily down to me, and I caught one, congratulating myself on my expert leaf-retrieving skills. The leaf in my hand was dry and brittle, and because I had caught it with such vigor, when I opened my hand to look more closely, I realized it had crumbled to powder in my palm. I pouted, and tipped my hand, silently observing the spread of oaken ashes in the light breeze.

Before the last fragments were gone, I heard someone whispering, but when I turned to look for the source, the only thing I saw was a crude heart chiseled in the trunk of the tree. Within the heart, the initials

RD

+

JL

I reached out and traced the letters as an overwhelming flood of emotions filled me. I knew this tree.  A long time ago, before the miscarriages and tears, before the grown-up decisions and divorce, a beautiful boy and a younger version of me had laboriously scraped these letters into this tree with a dull pocket-knife. This tree sat in the middle of where we would have built our house, if it had all worked out.

The tears came, unwelcome- tears, not because of regrets, because the decisions made had been the right ones, but because these memories were not welcome here, not on this day, not in my coveted field. The fingers outlining the letters curled into a fist, as did the fingers of my other hand, and then they were beating furiously on the foul carving, again and again. I heard myself cursing violently, and salty tears blurred my vision, and I continued to strike mercilessly on the oak’s mighty trunk until my fists were bloodied and raw.

I wiped the hated tears away with my forearm, and glared at the wretched heart, now bleeding with my own vital fluids. It seemed to pulse as I stood there, but I knew it was only the rage inside of me that lived. I screamed at the aged tree, and it paid me no mind. I wailed until my voice was ragged, but still this oak stood sentinel over the engraved memory, and it was not removed.

At last, when all of my energy was spent, I sank down against the base of the tree and covered my head with my arms, sobbing uncontrollably for all that was, and wasn’t, and couldn’t be. My divine Sunshine continued to pour over me, but I hardly noticed.

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Different


Before

Trinyx stayed just under the surface of the waves, watching the beautiful creature with the bouncing hair react to the lecherous older one. She worried when she saw the angry expression cross the young human’s face, wondering what had angered him so, as she watched him shove the other man out of the way. Trinyx felt as though her very self was being pulled toward the handsome boy as he stomped angrily away from the ship’s rail, until she noticed a splash in the waves next to her. She moved away in disgust when she realized what it was- one of the other less-attractive humans was leaning over the side of the ship, retching into the sea. She was filled with fury that he was polluting her ocean in such a way, and wanted to jump up and  grab the man, pull him into the water, and swim down to the deepest depths with him where she knew he would perish. Instead, she swam close to the body of the ship, and indignantly banged her tail against the wood several times.

As she swam away toward her home, she looked back, and saw several of the men looking confused and leaning over the ship’s rail, peering into the water, wondering what sort of fish had rammed their boat. Trinyx glimpsed the dark-haired man too, who seemed to be looking directly at her, though she knew it was too dark for him to see that far. She lifted her pale hand in a useless gesture, and thought she imagined the man raise his own hand in return. The waves moved    her, and she pushed her tail against them , diving into the night-black water.

Far below the moonlit surface of the ocean, Trinyx slowed her movements, realizing how close she had been to a human. She thought of how soft his hair had been between her fingers, and how it had sprung so lightly from them. She weaved her fingers between the ropey lengths of her own hair that was billowing out around her, and let it go, watching it lazily drift in the leftover currents of her swimming. A few small fishes glides through it, and she swatted them away, perturbed.

She felt melancholy now, now that she had felt the air on her thick skin. She had never felt the pressure of the water surrounding her, but she felt it now, and she wanted to be back against the ship, looking into the expressive eyes of the alluring young man again. She thought of him and wondered if his skin would feel like hers, and she ran her hands down her torso, over her breasts and down her belly, until she felt scales that led into a lengthy tail. She looked at her tail, the tail that was the envy of her sisters, with it’s rainbow of purple and green and silvery scales, and decided it was not at all beautiful. Her fingertips felt over the coarse scales, and she wanted to feel what it was like to stand on two legs like the humans on the ship had.

The man’s eyes had been one color, and though she had never seen her own, she knew from looking into her sisters’ faces that mermaid eyes were an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colors, and she thought to herself how uninteresting that was- as she had watched the man, she could see within his eyes a flurry of emotions, whereas when she watched her sisters, the constant color shift in their eyes made it completely impossible to know what they were thinking.

She had let the man’s sounds wash over her; how different they had been from her own! From the things her grandmother had told her, human voices were terrible to listen to, and humans themselves were seemingly possessed when offered a mermaid song, but Trinyx had liked the sound of his words- they were not melodious as a mermaid’s, no, but still pleasing to the ear in their own way.

She fingered the silver chain that was tied in her hair, and pushed the little button that had released the tiny door. She cried out when she saw that the picture inside was beginning to disintegrate already, and she shut it again quickly, hoping to preserve the likeness of the woman who looked like her human. She gripped the locket tightly to her chest, and was amazed that she cared so for this man, this creature who was so unlike her. She swam in circles, wondering what she was to do now.  Bubbles and fish floated out of her way as she did so. She was forbidden to have contact with the upper world, but there was one thing she knew for certain- she had to see him again.

 

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I’m Awesome, Or So They Say


Before you say that no one even knows who these proverbial They are, let me just say- this time, I can actually clarify who “They” , in fact, are.

It seems while I’ve been pretending to be too busy writing my November novel to write on my blog, I have become more popular than ever before, so much so, that I received two, yes, count them, TWO blog awards in the same day! Just a few days ago. I did not immediately respond, because I was sadly, working, and going to concerts, and masturbating. (Ok, I only said that last thing to make sure you were paying attention.)

Anyhoo, Archon over there in his Den bestowed upon me the You’re a Winner! Award, which requires me to do nothing but appreciate, which I most certainly do, since without Archon, I would only receive comments from one Pouring My Art Out, which is, in itself, not something to complain about, but I like to think that Archon and PMAO are fighting over who will eventually win my hand in virtual blogospherial matrimony. (Yes, that is my histrionica kicking in there.) Both are unfailingly loyal in being the only two bloggers to “Like” and comment on every single post I make. John used to  silently appreciate me, but he has more important things to waste his time on. (I know, I can’t think of anything either.) Whatever, the point is- Thanks, Grumpy Dude!

Too, I was awarded the Liebster Award by honeyimalesbian, a blogger who I am ashamed to admit I did not know existed until I received said award. (Isn’t it nice to be appreciated by people you didn’t know about?) I appreciate her just as greatly, and shall make an effort to further get to know the workings of her inner mind.

As always, there are rules that come with the Liebster Award, which I most certainly do not intend to fully abide by. Nominating fellow bloggers is one, where I will hereby direct you to the right of your screen to click on a blogger of your choosing from my blogroll. Secondly, I am to answer the ten questions asked of me by Honey, and here they are:

1. Where would you love to go on a trip?

Neverland, Wonderland, and Chicago. In that order.

2. What did you want to be when you grew up? Did you do it?

An artist, a writer, a rancher, an actress, a mother, a wife, a stripper, and then a writer again.

Maybe I will do it, if I ever grow up.

3.  When and why did you start blogging?

A little over two years ago, because a coworker started a blog and I thought I could do it better, and because I have a lot of opinions nobody wants to know.

4.  Are you a foodie?

I love food, it is my nemesis.

5. When was your first kiss??

I kissed a girl and I like it, when I was very young.

I kissed a boy when I was 15, and didn’t like it as much.

6. What do you read/ watch when you are in a creative funk?

Other people’s blogs/ Sex and the City. Because everyone else’s lives are much more desirable than my own.

7.  Introvert? Extrovert?

I am an introvert stuck in an extrovert’s body. Or at least my boobs are extroverted.

8. What is your favorite season?

The one when I get the most presents. Or feel like giving them.

9. Coffee or Tea?

I don’t think anything with whip cream, chocolate, and caramel added can really be considered coffee anymore.

10. Whats the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you?

Loved me even when I continued to be a neurotic, fucked-up, self-absorbed nincompoop.

Now, I’m supposed to ask 10 questions of my own of all the people I didn’t nominate, but I don’t have time for that shit. I have a book to write. XOXO

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Unfinished Business


I painstakingly try to wrestle my unruly curls into braided pigtails before swiping on a layer of ruby red lipstick that rivals the sparkle of Dorothy’s legendary heels. I crack my knuckles, preparing my fingers for the flood of words they will soon type.

And then I sit here and stare at my damn computer screen, without one hint of an idea of how I’m going to do this.

Remember how I was all gung-ho about NaNoWriMo? Yeah, well that was three days ago.

I am stubborn, the stubbornest of the Stubborn, yet I have this little problem called never finishing anything. Seriously. I think the only thing I ever finished was my first short story in the third grade about a pet squirrel named Chippy who unfortunately had to be released back into the wild. I actually skipped recess to finish that story.

I WILL finish this book I’ve started that has no clear outline written or end in sight, and maybe after that I will find the strength to finish my many other unfinished projects- the 5 paintings sitting forlorny in the corner, the book I started writing almost a decade ago, the book-page wreath my Rockstar doesn’t understand. Maybe I just need everybody to go out to recess so I can finish…

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NaNoWriMo, Ready or Not!


It’s NaNoWriMo, and no, that’s not a fresh new way for me to insult you. National Novel Writing Month has begun, and even though I have no idea how it started or really what the rules are, I thought it might just be the push I need to get at least one of these books out of my head and out in the open for all to see. Oddly enough, the book I’ve decided to begin is none of the five that I’ve already begun. In retrospect, perhaps I’ve been subconsciously gearing up for this month by mostly ignoring my blog for the month of October, or maybe I was just being lazy. Whatever the reason, I’ll see you in 50,000 words. Be prepared for whatever falls out of my head. I make no promises or excuses. Wish me luck.

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Roses and Threats


Alyssa pulled her purple Ranger into the driveway with enough speed and gusto to make her fiancée Ryan cringe. He gripped the “oh shit” bar and was about to comment on women drivers as she came to a notably abrupt stop, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to put Lyss in a pissy mood. He jumped quickly out of the truck, thanking heaven he was still intact after the ride.

“I’ll get the mail!” He offered cheerily, already making his way to the mailbox.

Alyssa grabbed her purse and climbed out of the driver’s side, grinning to herself. She loved getting to Ryan like that. She admitted that she wasn’t a cautious driver, but she knew he didn’t consider her a good driver anyway, so she did shit like that just to bug him. She hummed as she stuck her key in the door, but stopped when she noticed the overwhelming smell of roses as the door swung open.

There were white rose petals EVERYWHERE. Alyssa’s eyes widened as she looked around. The ancient door normally swung back into whoever was walking through it, but the carpet of flowers made it stick half way open. The floors and countertops were crowded with crystal vases of every size, stuffed with long-stemmed white roses. Every step she took sent up a floral aroma, because there was no way to step around the carpet of petals. She was still standing completely awed in the middle of the kitchen when Ryan walked in the door.

“What the-” Lyss grew more bewildered when she saw the look of confusion on Ryan’s face. He smiled when she looked at him. “You tryin’ to butter me up, Baby? I prefer beer to roses.” His joke fell flat when Alyssa responded.

“I didn’t do this. How’d you afford all this?” Alyssa was still too overwhelmed to say anything else. She looked around and noticed the envelope with Ryan’s name sitting on the table the same time he did. Ryan shuffled through the matting of roses, and Alyssa giggled at how ridiculous he looked. He picked up the envelope and tore it open as Alyssa leaned forward to sniff a vaseful of flowers. She breathed in deeply and her eyes slid shut as she luxuriated in the smell, so she didn’t see Ryan’s facial expression darken from confusion to rage.

“WHO THE FUCK IS JACK?” The question reverberated throughout the room, making the many roses shiver. Alyssa jumped at the unexpected outburst, and knocked over the vase of flowers she’s just been enjoying.

“What?” she whispered. Her heart pounded in her ears as she waded through the mess. Ryan flung the card at her ferociously, and backed away from her. The look of utter malice in his eyes as he did so made Alyssa’s stomach drop. She looked down at the card in her hands and mouthed the words as she read them.

Ryan,

You’ll never be able to give her this. You can’t even afford to pay the electric bill, can you? She’s too good for a loser like you, and you know it. Alyssa is mine, and I can give her everything you’ll never be able to. Take a hike, buddy.

Jack

Alyssa looked up from the note, and Ryan mistook her wide-eyed expression as guilt. He backed even further away, shaking his head in fury.

“I know I’m broke, but what the fuck?! You find some rich asshole to have an affair with and talk about what a loser I am? What kind of sick cunt do you have to be to do that?”

It felt like Ryan had just punched her in the face when he said the words. He had never once called her any offensive names, and as far as she knew, he’d never found her untrustworthy. She felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, and she stuttered to correct him.

“No, no, no,” She put her hand out to grab his, and he swatted her away. “Jack is that creepy guy I told you about that stops by the store; the one who kept asking me out, even after I told him about you. I’ve never seen him outside of work.” She felt herself becoming hysterical the more she thought about it. “He had to have gotten in here somehow- he had to have followed me- oh my god, Ryan, he was in our house.” The moment she said it, she began shaking.

“Well that’s probably because you fucking let him in, Alyssa.” Ryan’s tone was cold and unforgiving. “How else would he fucking know I’m broke unless you told him during one of your sex romps?”

Alyssa squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head furiously. She didn’t know if the tears were from shock or betrayal, but they would not be stopped. She could hardly breathe, but she refused to let Ryan think she’d cheated on him.

“No, I never told him that. I swear I never did sex with him! I was nice to him at the store, that’s all. I kept telling him I had a fiancée, but he kept asking me to have a drink with him. He said he just wanted to talk, because I was nice to talk to. I didn’t- I would never, EVER do that to you, Love. You have to believe me.” She opened her eyes, and squealed in surprise. Ryan was still looking at her like he wanted to strangle her, but her focus was behind him. Jack was standing directly behind Ryan, with a deadly-looking bowie knife gleaming in his hand.

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Buy Our Book!


alitd-coverSo yeah.

I wrote a short story.

Well, I’ve written a lot of short stories, but this one was actually for a good cause.

Over a year ago I was asked to contribute to an anthology for Writing Out Child Abuse. So I did. Sadly, I am always in my own little world, so I didn’t do the advertising that I should have. So anyhoo, you all should buy this book, and tell everyone you know to buy it too. If you wonder which story I wrote, you can pretend my pen name is Phoebe Valois. I expect all of you to give me your opinions. So there.

http://www.amazon.com/A-Light-Darkness-ebook/dp/B008BMUPAO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1339767715&sr=8-1&keywords=A+Light+In+The+Darkness+J.S.+Wayne

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More Than One Reason You Should Pick Up a Book


I began thinking about this post with the intention of just rambling on pointlessly about my love of books.

But then I thought to myself, “Self, nobody cares that you love books, and anyway, the Book People already understand.”

I realized how very right my Self was.

But then I got to thinking, “What if I gave the non-Book People good and valid reasons to want to read?”

And so, here you are:

Reason #1: You will only be smarter if you read a book.

Even if it a complete disaster of a story line (ahem, Twilight) with questionable self-absorbed control-issue teen romances, you will come out the other end with just a little more knowledge than you went in with- even if it IS only finding out the difference between there, their, and they’re.  It is hoped that perhaps you might learn something a bit more challenging than third grade English, but sadly, some books are meant to entertain imbeciles.

Reason #2: You will have a conversation starter.

Just think, the next time you are waiting in a never-ending line for an open porta-potty behind a man decked out in full pirate regalia at the Renaissance Festival, instead of commenting on the size of his sword, you could mention that you just finished an amazingly entertaining book by so-and-so, and you might find that instead of thinking about his sword, this pirate may come alive with the information that he, too, just finished the same book! Perhaps you will become deeply engrossed in literary conversation, and become friends for all eternity. This also works to pick up girls, but generally only the smart ones.

Reason #3 : Money might fall out.

If you are wise enough to purchase a book at your local used-book store, you might be lucky enough to open your slightly-loved copy of Moby Dick and discover a $500 bill. More likely, it will be a oner, or maybe a five, but hey, it paid for your damn book, so shut up.

Reason #4: You may discover you harbor a secret desire to become an author, or an editor.

If you read your used book and find that you are very opinionated about how the author worded things and/or changed subjects, maybe you were meant to become a world-famous book critic instead of wasting away your days in the drive-thru at McDonald’s.

Really, you will never find yourself wishing, “Dang it, I didn’t get to watch enough T.V. this week.” But you may just be sorry if a certain redhead asks you if you’ve read a book, and you have to shamefully admit you haven’t.

 

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